“Are the roads dangerous at night?”
“And what may you mean by dangerous, my lady?”
“Footpads and rough men.”
“London way there be them kind of creatures. Puddles and ruts be our great trouble, and the mud-holes when the ways be rotten. A horse may break his leg in one of ’em; but there, God’s providence be powerfuller nor mud-holes.”
She went on with her stitching, watching a red slipper tapping a little restlessly on the brick curb about the hearth, as though beating out the furlongs and the miles. Dusk was falling rapidly, and though the fire was bright, Mrs. Winnie was thinking of lighting the candles when the red slipper ceased its tapping, and the figure before her remained motionless and alert.
“I can hear a horse, Mrs. Winnie.”
Mrs. Jennifer listened.
“It be a loose bough of the old plum-tree clapping against the wall.”
“I am sure it is a horse.”
She rose up and went to the window, and leaned her elbows on the sill. Mrs. Jennifer gave a nod of the head, as though assuring herself that youth must have its way. She knew every sound in and about the house when the wind blew from over the sea.